When I found out she was dead, I had a need to see her body, to be with her and feel, in the presence of her flesh, whatever I needed to feel. The funeral home had done her hair in a funny way and put make-up on her. A plastic sheet was pulled up to her chin. I washed her face and bathed her body, bloody from the autopsy, and held her frozen fingers. I wrapped her in cotton. I appreciated the youth of her body, her musculature, and all the moles and freckles that were so familiar to me.
But she was gone, the life of her, the light and spirit of her, her eyes. All that was left in the room with me was the quiet, and her final and absolute freedom from physical and emotional pain. I understood clearly that the thing that animates us is bigger than the world we know, deeper than skin and flesh, utterly incontainable, and full of peace. Sitting in the funeral home, alone with the body of my dead sister, was one of the most profound and beautiful moments of my life. In some paradoxical kind of way, she blessed me deeply from beyond the grave.
Hardships teach me lessons to remind me who I am below my skin.
